


The Quick Surprise of Waking

by Sunlit-Wasteland (hot_cinnamon_man)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Introspection, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:42:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4758560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hot_cinnamon_man/pseuds/Sunlit-Wasteland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corypheus is defeated and everyone is celebrating, but for the Inquisitor, weary and burnt out, it's just the beginning of the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quick Surprise of Waking

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/14614.html?thread=57847318#t57847318).

It's over.

The celebration seems to go on for hours. Cheering, dancing, drinking; everyone wants a word, a toast, another telling of Corypheus's fall. The Inquisitor refuses to let his shoulders droop; he keeps a fixed smile on his face and hopes that if it doesn't look sincere, at least it looks polite. Between each conversation he keeps looking up at the sky, his marked hand flexing, and thinks that the worst is over.

"What will the Inquisition do now, my lord?" he's asked for the fifth time that night.

"The Inquisition will continue our work. There's always someone in Thedas who needs help, and we're the best equipped for it," he answers for the fifth time, taking a small dose of comfort in the honesty of that statement. Any certainty he feels in the statement lies not in that he knows what that will be, but that he will do it.

He should be happier, he realizes. All he feels is an amount of satisfaction, relief that his companions and loved ones and near everyone else are safe for the moment. And yet that does little to sooth the weariness that has taken root deep in his bones. Faces, smiling and tear-stained alike seems to blur into the next, and laughter and boasts and sobs blend into a cacophony throbbing in his skull.

It isn't until a must-be suicidal Sera somehow nicks Vivienne's hat that he sneaks away, shaking his head in amusement as shouts and calls drift to him. He makes his way through the aged structure, sighing softly once his door comes near within reach and then promptly stiffening at the sound of footsteps behind him.

"You managed to slip away," comes a familiar soft voice, soothing away the tension in his body like it was never there to begin with. "I thought I might claim more of your attention after all."

And how very glad is Maxwell to give him it. "Is something on your mind?"

" _Everything_ ," Cullen says with a tone that dances between playful and flirtatious, one that he never would have used when they first met. Perhaps Maxwell was rubbing off on him a little, and he doesn't know if the thought pleases him or not.

Maxwell laughs for what feels like the first time in days, and takes Cullen by the hand to lead him into his room.

It's sometime later, after hours of tired but sweet lovemaking and while Cullen is drifting off that Maxwell has time for thoughts of later. The sweat is starting to cool on their bodies, and their legs are tangled together with Cullen's head nestled on his shoulder; it's a far cry from in the beginning when Cullen was too hesitant for prolonged physical contact and Maxwell was perfectly willing to leave without a word as he slept. Now Cullen can't seem close enough, and Maxwell subconsciously rubs his back, his other hand on the arm Cullen has thrown over his abdomen.

It's over, he thinks as he presses a kiss into blond curls. It's over, he thinks as he watches the shadows on the walls. It's over, he thinks, and thinks them slowly. It's over, he thinks as he tries not to think about purpose and the lack of it.

* * *

 

Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed.

Those words are well-ingrained in Maxwell's head, and even after all these years he can see his father sitting at the desk in his study, stern-faced and determined to cement certain lessons into his children's minds. It was common that every few days Bann Trevelyan to send for one of his children, and for that child to stand before him as he finished whatever paperwork he had set out to do that day. Don't fidget, don't slouch, or make noise - the Bann would look up quick as a flash, eyes emerald green and sharper than any cut of stone or reprimand, the mark of a man who never actually had to speak in order to command. So very tall, with hands so large and calloused, and with shoulders so broad they cut off the sunbeams from behind him and cast both him and the visitor in shadow, save for the flickering candle on the desk.

"You're so much like him," he can recall his mother cooing at him when he was small, her soft, cool hands upon his oft-fevered face. "You look like him so, my sweet boy, my little one. You'll grow up big and strong, just like your father."

It became very important for him to gather whatever bits and pieces of him and his father that matched. Same eye color, same long noses, both left-handed. Watched him close, and tried to mimic the steady stride, the straight shoulders, the steadfast look in his eyes that did not falter before any challenge. He had truly believed at that time that he could become strong simply by becoming as much his father as he could.

Even after twenty years he feels as though he is grasping after his father's cloak.

* * *

 

Maxwell awakes to find his arm numb under a still sleeping Cullen's weight, can feel his breath on his neck and the slight fluttering of his eyelashes. He holds him a little tighter and smiles when Cullen incredibly finds a way to curl up closer around him as though to meld them together. Maxwell's ears prick when he hears him murmuring in his sleep; relaxes when nothing indicates a nightmare. He rests his head back, turns his gaze to the ceiling, his drowsy thoughts spiraling out and into directions he's not sure he ready to take this early in the morning.

Corypheus was dead, but he'd be a fool to think the fallout would be easy to get through. Recovery would be a slow process. Fractured groups of bandits and cutthroats are still running loose, rogues from both sides of the Mage-Templar War still struggling for supremacy, and of course, nobles and military leaders with power or delusions thereof, squabbling over the remains like spoiled children who cared not a damn if they broke their toys in the pursuit of more. Bloody fools, the lot of them. Perhaps he the most foolish of all.

The bitterness of his thoughts takes him aback, and he tries to direct them to less dark turns. He looks toward his balcony; the sky is slowly beginning to lighten outside, and he listens to Cullen's slow breathing as the darkness in the room fades. The day would start before long, one without immediate threat of the world ending. His friends are alive, Leliana is going to be the new Divine, and the man he loves is safe and warm in his arms. The sky is turning pink and gold, the dawn of a new day, and he waits for his heart to be filled with light and triumph and the joy of _it's over_.

And waits.

He startles when he feels lips gently press against his shoulder, his collarbone, his neck. Turns his head to capture Cullen's mouth with his own, deep but unhurried, languid and soft, and sighs. Cullen pulls back, and Maxwell's sound of protest is broken off by Cullen's expression, feels it die in his throat when Cullen strokes his cheek, the one with the three diagonal scars. Brown eyes fill with a love that he never thought he could have, and a concern that is worrying.

"You're tense this morning," he says, voice near a whisper, eyes intently looking over Maxwell's face as though he could hunt down whatever was bothering him and eliminate it. "Is it- Was I too forward? When you returned, I mean."

"When you embraced me in front of all of Skyhold?" he asks. "If I had been thinking straight, we'd have given them a bit more of a show than that."

Cullen's cheeks turn a pale pink and his smile is one of open joy that warms Maxwell's heart. "Then what is wrong?" he still asks, because naturally his Fereldan lover is like a dog with a bone.

_I'm an ungrateful bastard, that's what's wrong._

"Well, I can't feel one of my arms."                                    

Cullen blinks and then looks sheepish. "Oh-"

Before Cullen can move away, Maxwell hooks his other arm around his waist and pulls over so he's laying completely on top of him, long and lean legs straddled enticingly over his hips. Cullen laughs a little, and he surges up to kiss him once more, morning haze giving way to passion. He slips his hand down between Cullen's ass cheeks, down to his entrance which is still slick from last time. A finger lazily circles the hole before entering to the top knuckle - Cullen moans into his mouth and squirms, eliciting a gasp from both of them as their dicks rub against each other.

"I'm starting to think you're - _ah_ \- insatiable."

"Only when it comes to you," Maxwell tells him, and flips them over - laughing at Cullen's surprised yelp - to lavish proper attention to his lover's enticing neck.

Soon they will have to get up and face the day and all that comes with it. For this moment, though, it is only him and his love, and the rest of the world can wait if only, if only for a moment.


End file.
